


a blur of conquerors

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Hotels, M/M, TOO MANY COMMAS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 03:17:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18241304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: The practice of persuasion.





	a blur of conquerors

**Author's Note:**

> umm this movie has no backstory except some Sad Dad Ben Affleck, sooooo I cannot be blamed for any of this

"Still burns in you, doesn't it," Pope says, stepping closer. In the strange colors of the hotel room half-lit by the neon sign buzzing _No Vacancy_ outside, his eyes seem to flash. He gets close enough that he could lean the warm weight of his body against Tom's, if he wanted to, and then he does just that. 

Tom's had plenty of practice at not reacting, and for now he simply looks down at Pope's face, clean-shaven for once, somehow looking younger than the last time Tom saw him. 

Pope adds, "I missed this, you know?"

"You're trying really fucking hard when I already said yes," Tom replies. He could push Pope away, could grab him and move him, bodily, out of temptation's path. Instead, he settles his shoulders a little more firmly against the wall, and waits to see what move Pope might make next. He feels like it's been a long time since there was any semblance of anticipation in his life.

Only seconds pass for real, but it's enough for his mind to slide through all the places he and Pope have been in the world: the dry, sandy and hot stretches of Iraq; the bare mountains of Afghanistan where a single wrong step meant a broken bone, or worse, death as you tumbled down the sheer rock face; the flat farmland of Uruguay that went past in a same-seeming blur as the Jeeps they rode in sped down the highway. Just as quickly, he thinks of all the people he's killed, the people he's seen killed, hot blood spreading over fatigues and ratty t-shirts all the same, spilling from soldiers and civilians alike.

"Red," Pope breathes, his hand on the waistband of Tom's khakis, his fingers opening the button already without Tom's reply.

Tom sucks in a sharp breath. His mind, still somewhere in South America, expects overheated air, and the metallic-tasting A/C is a shock. He brings himself back to the present, says, "You better make it good if you want me to do this recce."

Pope laughs at that, as he fits his hand around Tom's thickening cock, as Tom drags in another breath, this time getting the barest hint of Pope's cologne and sweat, all mixed together. "When have I ever not made it good?" Pope asks, making the words syrupy-thick - with suggestion, with confidence, with his own desire. Tom looks down at Pope's crotch and smirks, and runs his hand up Pope's firm thigh. 

"Don't distract me," Pope says, slapping Tom's fingers away.

Tom laughs outright. He holds up both hands and rolls his hips, pushing his dick into Pope's grip, closing his eyes again. "I surrender."

"You better," Pope sighs, his teeth to Tom's ear, scraping lightly. "Come back with me, to Colombia. Do the whole mission with me."

"Why the fuck did you rent this room when you could have stayed with any one of us," Tom replies, then hisses as Pope runs a rough thumb over the head of his cock. He's loathe to admit it, but it's been a long time since there's been anyone but his own hand, a perfunctory thing in the dark so he'll sleep better, once he finally can sleep, once his brain is done replaying countless bloody memories, the sort no man should have. Ninety percent of the time, the orgasm doesn't even help.

He's almost forgotten what he's said when Pope mutters, "Your apartment is sad, it's no wonder you don't get laid."

"Hey," Tom tries to protest, but it comes out mostly a groan as Pope tightens his grip and strokes a little faster. "Fuck."

"Like we used to do, huh," Pope breathes into his ear, and the hot pain/pleasure mix runs through Tom again, because the familiar feeling of Pope like this is shot through with the memories of a rifle's recoil against his shoulder, civilians blown up in a dusty anonymous street, the bright blooming pain of the bullets ripping through Tom's calf, his arm, the ricochet that clipped his collarbone.

He mutters back, "Lucky I survived," and Pope chuckles at that before he puts his mouth and his teeth to Tom's throat.

Tom comes with a muffled curse, shoulders pressed hard to the wall and his heels digging into the shitty motel room carpet. He feels Pope grind against his hip. Hears his mumbled, "Fuck, Red," and Tom moves his hand enough to grab Pope's thigh and squeeze. 

"Don't you dare wipe your hand on my shirt," he says.

Pope huffs a laugh and drags his fingertips over Tom's wet cock, making him twitch. "Used to keep so quiet in the dark."

The length of the night and all the beer is catching up with him all at once, and he sags against the wall. "You getting off or what, 'cause I'm about to pass out."

"Shit, what happened to the days we could go all night without so much as a yawn?" Pope asks, this time an actual question instead of an attempt to get Tom wound up. 

"Fuck, dude, we got old." He straightens up, wincing as his joints pop, and makes it the few steps to the ugly hotel bed before falling onto it. "Hurry up."

The sound of footsteps, then running water, followed by the distinct noise of Pope's boots hitting the floor. Then Tom feels his own boots being yanked off, unceremoniously, and he shoves his khakis down his legs and kicks them the rest of the way gone. The bed dips; Tom feels Pope's body heat bleeding through his undershirt and boxers, and then the slick, familiar sound of Pope jerking off reaches his ears. He puts one hand on Pope's thigh again and rests the other over his eyes to completely block out the light.

"Kill Lorea and steal this money with me," Pope breathes, his words punctuated by soft, pleased sounds, like the thought of the op turns him on. It probably does. 

"What if things go wrong?"

"Got you to help me, what could go wrong?" Pope asks, and Tom would punch him for the tease except he knows Pope's dead serious, so he digs his fingertips into the meat of Pope's thigh and doesn't let up on the pressure until Pope is groaning. The sound of it is drowned out by the loud, dull thunk of the air conditioner kicking on again. 

"Fuck," Pope sighs. Tom takes his hand back, flexing his fingers. The neon outside flickers again. Tom remembers he's lying here with his dick out, and his collarbone aches. A blunt pain he hardly registers anymore rolls down his arm. Pope stretches and mutters something about the old days.


End file.
